Mercy
by Maya Sushi
Summary: It is dark in this corridor that I walk through. I follow the man before me and watch his back, and I assume he does the same to those before him. We are stoic and stiff, trained soldiers. Drachman, proud. I am especially proud. I see the Amestrian today.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own FMA.

_**A/N: **_Sometimes you just can't ignore ideas. Even when you have like fifty other multi-chapter stories that you need to update, you might still get caught starting another one. This one is has an OC, and that means a character I have created ends up with Edward at some point during this story. I'm sorry if you don't like stories like that, I usually don't write them, but don't worry about it being the "traveling partner slowly falls in love during their journey" type of thing. Because that's not the plot. If it's hard to understand, then here's the basic structure for you. The point of view is from a girl who has joined the Drachman army as an interpreter, as she has been studying the Amestrian language and the lack of knowledge in that area quickly gets her a place of importance within the militia. Edward is 21 in this story, and Alphonse has his body returned to him. I'm not going to specify how, because it's not really important for the story. (**_!SPOILER ALERT FOR 108!:_** I read 108 and I cried. I was practically screaming at Al when he decided to give up his soul for Ed's arm! I was like, what the FUCK that just defeats the whole purpose of everything you guys have done! But it was okay because he was expecting Edward to come and save him anyway, since that's Ed's job. I guess what I'm trying to make clear is that Ed still has the ability to do alchemy, those of you who have read it. _**!SPOILERS OVER!**_) Drachma and Amestris are at war (I can see that coming, can't you?) and she is positioned at a camp that is working toward researching the location of Amestrian camps hidden within the mountains. The two sides have taken up base on opposite sides of a pass. Edward is captured. There you go. I hope it turns out alright, but you know, it had to be an OC for the story to work right. I couldn't have Winry joining the Drachma ranks and forgetting how to properly speak her own language now could I?

Please tell me what you think of the start of this story. I'm not so sure about it, so I would love to hear what you think.

* * *

_**Mercy**_

_**One**_

The strangest sounds came from its mouth. It writhed and struggled and screamed with angry growls and terrible shrieks. The words were Amestrian, the language I had so tediously studied, but could never fully grasp, and they came in such a strange, odd voice and dialect I could hardly understand. But it was when I recognized that fact that I knew what it was. He, actually.

He was an Amestrian.

He was gone from my vision almost as immediately as he had been placed into it. Everyone around me was frozen with shock and fear and awe. This wasn't the first time an Amestrian had been held here, we were told, but the people around me were a part of the most recent transfer of troops and supplies. Myself included. I had never seen an Amestrian before.

The only other woman this group I had arrived in, a Lieutenant-Colonel by the name of Nim, approached me warily. We are good friends, "That was an Amestrian," she mumbled and I nod in acknowledgment.

"Did you see his hair?" A man asked from beside me.

"Such a weird color," I agree with another nod, "like the color of the hay that our pack animals eat," I frown.

Nim frowns as well, "There's something to be said about that," disgust is clear in her voice.

"I should have touched it!" someone calls jokingly. I don't find it very funny.

"The people of Amestris are dangerous!" I turn to the boy who uttered the sentence a moment before, the lecture hot on my tongue, "you'll do well to remember that. Do not count anything out."

The boy paused, considering my words, before a look of fear passed over his face, "Where will they put it?"

"There's no need to worry," I'm ripe with assurance now, rather than scorn. "The Drachman army does not fall for Amestris' tricks. Nothing will become of his presence."

Nim sighed, "You'll have to see him won't you,"

I froze, the situation must have escaped me. Of course. I was sent as a specialist in reference to the office of foreign exchanges. Lieutenant Reagan Mercy, Amestrian interpreter. The need for the language had become overwhelming as of late. My studies were never fully completed. I had never heard an Amestrian speak, although I had on many occasions held conversations in said language. However, knowledge of it's structure was scarce and confusing. I found it hard to learn, much of it evaded my grasp entirely. The culture was nearly impossible. Such odd things. I could hardly see how any of it would help me. Most likely, I would now be used to interpret for prisoners and those withholding them. I wondered if my knowledge would be enough, or if I would be cast aside.

"Poor Mercy," a man put his hand on my shoulder and addressed me informally. How disrespectful, I decided not to mention it, but I shrugged his hand off quickly, "you're too young,"

He was right. As I said earlier, the people of Amestris' are dangerous. This was a pivotal point in my career, but also, my life. What if one attacked me? Tried to kill me? The barbarians. What would I do? I'm no good in hand to hand combat. Would my weapons work well in a battle against one? Wait. Of course. These weapons were issued to me by the Drachman army. There were no doubts. Drachma was superior. Drachma would prevail.

So that was what I told him, "Drachma is superior," I said calmly, "I have no doubts,"  
Nim put her arm around me and pulled me to her, whispering into my ear, "Be safe," she cooed. I nod. Nim has always been like a mother to me. I began studying the language of Amestris when I was very young because of my father's insistence. After he passed away during an attack on the Amestrian for called Briggs I vowed to find a position of importance for myself in the Drachma militia. Apparently, my dad's idea that I should learn to speak the language of those ugly barbarian people to the South helped me achieve that goal. The language was a difficult one to learn. I was quickly deemed an important asset. Now, in my nineteen years of life experience, I have seen my first Amestrian.

Suddenly, the fear evaporated and I felt only anxious. I am excited. I will make myself useful and I can study this strange creature. My curiosity will be sated. It will be interesting. It will be fun. It will be great. Drachma will be victorious. I will help.

I feel very, very proud.

* * *

It is dark here.

It is dark in this corridor that I walk through now. I follow the man before me and watch his back, and I assume he does the same to those before him. We are all stoic and stiff, trained soldiers. Drachman, proud. I am especially proud. I see the Amestrian today.

Questioning. My superiors expect answers, and they expect answers that they can understand.

So I walk down this dark corridor. The hallway is filled with the absence of light. The deep, musky scent of exposed block and clay fills my nostrils and tickles the ends of my nerves. I resist the urge to sneeze. This silence is critical, it must be maintained. Professionalism, always; if I want to gain any amount of respect, I must first administer it to those around me. To those above me. To those who are relying on me. This silence is critical.

Each one of our footfalls echo throughout the empty passages of these stone-cold chambers. Every door I pass has no window for me to peer into, no crack for me to ponder. Cold steel is etched with numbers and plated across the solid iron doors. Each frame is individually crafted, each hinge is oiled tirelessly. We are Drachma, we are organized, efficient, and diligent. I still wish that there were some sort of imperfection; to catch my thoughts, to bring my mind and all of my focus away from what lay at the end of this cold, dark walk. I watch my feet instead, my back still ever straight, a stiff board that reads of endurance and obedience. I am but a servant to my country.

The door is the same as all the others. If you did not observe the large dent toward the bottom. That was the moment that fear truly entered my mind. Please let that be from a Drachman guard, slamming the Amestrian hard against the door, a command that was not understood perched on his tongue. These barbarians didn't have that kind of brute strength anyway. Reassurances filled my head, but they are not enough to completely sooth the anxiety coursing through my veins.

The room was dark as well, and I couldn't make out anything beyond the doorway. I watched as the Colonel and Brigadier-General before me filed into the room, the Lieutenant-Colonel and a few officers followed suit. For a brief moment I hesitated, my feet placed neatly at the border to the unknown. I was fearful of what I would find. But I couldn't let that fear get the best of me. It was completely irrational. It was disgraceful. Oh no. It was shameful. I steeled myself, clenching my jaw and fisting the bottom of my shirt to relieve some tension from my stance. I was unsuccessful. Clearly.

A light clicked on, and I heard the Brigadier-General's voice address me, "Do not be afraid," he instructed, surely he did not understand fear himself. Either way, it was more of a command than a comfort. Not that any pity or reassurance was expected. My eyes had taken a moment to adjust to the pale light, my pupils were rapidly extending, dilating to accommodate this new atmosphere. The first thing I saw was red. Red blood. There was a grail of it from where I stood leading all the way over to where it pooled, morbid and crimson, before four legs of wood and two legs of flesh. I swallowed a gasp at the Amestrian's presence. He was seated in a chair in the center of the room, his arms were twisted at odd angles and tried to seperate sides of the chair, and each of his legs were tied to a front chair leg. He had very yellow hair and eyes that looked like smoldering gold, melted down to be malleable and soft, and yet they were hard and aimed straight in my direction. I could feel them burning holes in my carefully constructed composure. I quickly averted my gaze. The blood appeared to be flowing freely from a wound on his thigh, the weapon that caused the injury was lying a few feet away. A knife that was soiled and bloody from the soft red flesh of the barbarian. Serves him right.

The door closed behind me and I felt my pulse quicken. The Brigadier-General began to speak and I watched as the Amestrian brought his gaze, eyes simply ablaze with anger, toward the man.

"Tell him what I say," he addressed me without looking in my direction. He continued, "You will tell us the location of Amestris' nearest camp."

_"You will tell where Amestris' camp is located,"_ I said, trembling slightly beneath the eyes that I could feel on me; the Amestrian looked at me with surprise, his blonde eyebrows raised.

The man's golden eyes hardened once more, _"Fuck you."_

I furrowed my brow and thought hard about the words. What did they mean. I could not remember learning of the first one.

"Lieutenant Reagan?"

"He says a word I cannot understand and then applies it informally to myself," I bit my bottom lip, venturing and opinion, "it may be some form of an insult."

"Tell him I will make him tell us," The man replied.

_"We will make," _I spit out, the words feel uncomfortable on my tongue. But I believe I have said the sentence correctly.

He looked confused, _"You... You'll make me tell you? Oh!" _he shook his head, _"Hell no, bitch. Plus, you've got it all wrong, you need more words in there."_

His words were fast, but somehow I managed to get most of it. The end was completely lost to me, he had used another word I did not know after his refusal. Another insult I assumed. It was addressed to me still, I believe, so it is safe to think so.

"He refuses," I tell the Brigadier-General with a grimace.

_**Thwack.**_

It happened so fast that I didn't even see the Colonel move. The Amestrian's head was tilted too-far to one side and the Colonel's hand was crossed tightly over his chest. The sound of the slap was still ringing in my ears. I smiled, this was what he deserved. No one refuses the Drachman ranks.

_"Fuck you." _the strange man repeated, this time to the Colonel, _"another few seconds and I'll collect your god damned head."_

"He threatened you," I tell the Colonel. His sentences were becoming increasingly easier to work out. But still only to a certain extent.

_"Tell him that I say,"_ the Amestrian said to me, and I looked over at him, startled, _"I will never tell you anything," _he spoke slowly so I could make sense of his words, thought it was probably simply for emphasis, and not my own convenience, _"tell them that they're going to die. Tell them they don't realize who I am."_

The men all looked curiously in my direction, and I blushed under the scrutinous attention, "He said that he will not tell, and that... you will... have... death, and that... you don't know who he is."

The Colonel smiled and stalked slowly over to the knife that lay discarded on the floor. He reached over to pick it up and all the while kept his eyes trained on the barbarian. Fear overtook me, I had not been witness to much violence, and never so blatantly purposeful. It filled me with qualms I did not know how to express, even in thought. The Colonel wasted no time upon his arrival back to where the man was sitting, and plunged the offending blade quickly into his left shoulder. Surely that was an area that was dangerously close to his heart! The man beneath the blade gave a loud, guttural cry, his back arching slightly off of the chair and his fingers cocking outward.

Somehow, however, he managed to quickly compose himself. I was quite abashed. Shouldn't there have been more anguish than this? The Amestrian clearly was not ready to entertain. I watched the red stain forming quickly on the side of his chest, staining the blue greatcoat that he wore over black clothes. The red appeared again at the end of his sleeve, and I watched it drip through his tense digits and felt my stomach suddenly turn. My satisfaction turned to slight disgust and for a moment I felt for the barbarian, his teeth clenched and his eyes screwed tightly shut.

_"You know," _he grumbled out, cracking one eye open and looking in my direction, _"nothing is __**ever**__ that easy,"_

"He said nothing is..." I trailed off. He was doing something with his had, and I was the only one who noticed. The other men were looking at me expectantly, "that nothing is ever..." he was rubbing his blood onto the chair. What would that do? She suddenly felt very nervous, "that nothing is ever that easy," she finished finally, her gaze still fixed on his curious fingers. Soundlessly, she pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the Amestrian's actions. They all turned to look, but before anyone could comprehend anything, there was a bright blue flash of light and the Amestrian was suddenly out of his bonds. I screamed in fright and backed up against the wall of the cell, putting as much space as I possibly could allow between myself and him. His golden eyes looked menacing and the shadow that the angle of the dim light cast over his features shielded most of his expression from me. He clapped his hands together with a groan of pain and there was another flash of blue light that illuminated the room in strange cerulean hues before a long, glinting, silver blade suddenly pulled out from his right arm. He gasped and clawed at his shoulder for a moment, and I watched as blood fell in chunks of liquid from where the long, jagged blade and pierced through his back. He should be unconscious by now! The blood he had lost pooled on the floor and teased me with its horrible stench of metal and death and pain, yet the strange man still stood. I had never seen so much blood.

I screamed again as he suddenly lunged forward in the direction of the Brigadier-General, who had drawn his fire arm. A shot rang out in the small room and I watched as the bullet fell with a soft clang to the floor as the man took his hand off the barrel of the gun. What just happened?

Before I could wonder at this any longer, the barbarian's blade was pushed through the Brigadier-General's arm, pinning him against the wall and knocking the gun from his now prone hand.

In another second there were an array of guns and blades pointed at the man, but he did not flinch. He merely turned his eyes to me and said, calm and controlled, _"Tell them if they shoot me I'll kill him,"_

"He said not to shoot or he'll kill him," I squeaked out uncertainly. But this was my chance! Could he be reasoned with? Or was the Amestrian too beast to reason?

_"Let go," _I called out to him, my hand reached forward slightly in his direction, and his eyes trained themselves on the quivering limbs, _"don't."_

_"Why?"_ he asked, unblinking.

I could not answer that question.

One of the men surrounding him suddenly tensed with fear and drove his blade into the Amestrian's side. He howled and ripped his own blade from the Brigadier-General's arm, repositioning his attack. He reared and attempted to stab him in the chest, but a gunshot sounded and he was on the floor in an instant. A new wound in his thigh was visible to see. Still, he did not give, with animalistic endurance, he swiped at the legs of the men standing around him, bring two officers crashing to the floor. One pointed his gun level with the Amestrian's face, but a sudden command made him freeze.

"Do not kill him!" the Brigadier-General roared. He kicked the Amestrian in the side and the strange man rasped and fought for air. He was covered in blood now. His hay-colored hair was beginning to catch the color of it, and it was leaking from the corner of his mouth in a steady stream. I watched as he finally fell out of consciousness, the blood loss too much, and wondered at the being's resilience.

I looked at the Brigadier-General, who was clutching to the torn muscle on his arm furiously. This clearly had not gone as smoothly as planned, "Treat his wounds, make sure he lives, and go get yourselves fixed up," he ordered with a stern nod of his head.

I clicked my tongue to gain his attention, "What was that strange magic?" I asked nervously. Could that experience give me the right to address him? I shook my head and apologized immediately, bowing at a slight angle towards the floor.

"You are forgiven," he sighed, "and I'm not sure. But we must know. We may have an alchemist on our hands."

"Alchemist?" I questioned. With a nod of his head and no further explanation, he ushered me out of the room.

My dreams that night were plagued with burning eyes and bloodied fingers, nightmares of horrible gold.

It is dark here.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Yes, it is true. My computer has been broken and I am now back with one shots and a new chapter story! But sadly no updates for my others (insert sheepish and guilty grin here). Ooooops.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Edward or Amestris or Drachma, I do own Mercy, and my lack of having an actual way to differentiate the languages spoken, besides putting Amestrian in italics.

_**A/N:**_ Yay! This had a rather impressive reception, I think, for the type of story it is. Thank you wonderful people. You definitely inspired me to write the second chapter :). It certainly took a lot to inspire that (I'm dreadfully lazy).

* * *

_**Mercy**_

_**Two**_

It is dark here.

The darkness of the night was so much easier to overcome. I wish now that I would not have ventured down into these despair filled dungeons. I can smell death all around me. A putrid odor I had not noticed before, for it had been masked by the scent of my pride. To blindly walk into danger without assurance of the risks that were to be presented to you, I had vowed never to be unprepared again. And yet, here I walk, down these musky trails that lead to melancholy eyes and tortured souls. My enemies. Here I walk, unarmed, unprepared.

I have yet to deduce what it is that has compelled me to journey to these miserable depths. Weeks have passed, the man should be mostly healed by now, dangerous, but still I come. Still I approach that door, the only one ruined by the strength of his fight, his fury, his will to escape and be freed. As I had discovered shortly after last night, when one of the wounded guards told me the tale of the way he had punched the door, and the metal had bent beneath him. My curiosity cannot be the whole reason, though I cannot deny that it is indeed an influential factor. But I know well that curiosity killed the cat, and I only have one life, not nine. So why do I still walk? Down these halls that reek of horrors? Could it be the nightmares that have plagued my soul? The terrible night terrors brought to me by winged demons upon midnight hours. I see the raging animal caged behind this door, I imagine his sharp white teeth burrowing deep through my flesh. I hear my screams echo through the dark chambers, wrapping around the tortured cries of the other prisoners. Joining a catalog of unanswered pleas and unspeakable pain. I see his fiery and untamed rage. Yet I desire for the mere sight of him. I imagine dull yellow eyes that watch as he ravage and destroy me, pale yellow hair that frames his exotic face as he ruins me. Perversions and sins. I have had horrible nightmares.

I know, however, that those eyes shine and glow with golden intelligence and resilience a beast should not possess. That his blonde hair is long and fine like silk that makes up the finest and richest of clothes and trembles against his pale skin. But I cannot imagine these things. I long for the sight of him in ways I cannot name. In hopes, perhaps, that I am purged of his haunting presence. So that I may revel in his splendor and marvel at his sweet honey being and, should I find myself wholly unharmed upon my departure, in hopes that I should find peace for at least one night to follow.

My hesitation was not long lived, for the decision had already been made. I did not glance uneasily back into the dark hallway that led to sorrow after sorrow, I pushed forward into this new darkness. Tangible and verifiable. This was profound. This was puzzling and complex, a conundrum of secrets and deceptions that hung in the stale air. I could feel the entirety of the room the very moment I crossed into it. Each particle of dust and mold that clung and fed on the dark damp walls. Every individual millimeter of darkness that surrendered beneath my steady footsteps. The oxygen that came into my anxious lungs and returned to the room anew, morphed, altered, and fell into a steady circular current around it. And in the center of it all, like a nucleus, came another singular exchange of gases. One that I had come to see.

He lay still on a bed consisting of a thin bolt of worn fabric, its edges frayed and worn, and I thought of its life. How it must have existed in the kitchens, rustic and refined, and cleaned the counters of the remnants of human hunger. Then it lay in the cupboards beneath pipes and rushing water as it gathered the dust of the old and the worn; as it became so itself. Until one day, a soldier, sure and steady, tall, with heavy boots and deep, thick words, held it roughly in his hand as he journeyed down those steps, through the darkness, to this room. Perhaps it had been the garb of a previous prisoner, tortured the same as he had been, ripped from his very torso and thrown into the dirty ground. Or perhaps it had always been here, and it always would. Accommodating the berth of each new stranger's warmth in the night.

His breath was too quick to be asleep, and I wondered if he thought he would fool me. So simple, he seemed, yet so filled with strength and fury. The lone light I had brought burned bright with flame and cast shadows across his light tones. I longed for him to open his eyes, to hear the strange sound of his voice as his accent pulled at words I had so tediously studied and made them so very different. Things I had borrowed but really, truly, were his. Each word, each syllable, meant for his tongue and not mine. Meant for his strange topaz eyes to read, to comprehend, and not the dark depth of my own to contemplate.

He spoke, _"Have you come to torture me? Ask me questions in a language I never cared to learn? Why do you bother? When you do not even know what I am saying?" _he never opened his eyes. He was in a position in which he feigned relaxation easily, but I found truth in his tired face and clothes crusted with dried blood.

The speed of his speech took me off guard once more, and I had to think carefully to comprehend fully what he had said. I thought of what I might say in return, but I could come up with nothing. This moment, I realize, had not been a part of the plan. Of course I knew that there was a possibility that he may speak to me, I was, after all, the only one here who shared his language in any way, who could understand him in even the smallest degree. I had thought that I would say whatever the situation determined that I should say, and then take my leave .I was devastated to find that I did not know what that was, and I faltered. My breath caught in my throat and I felt the stillness fall from my shoulders and rotate around me and slowly fill the dark room. Reaching the strange Amestrian man so that he shivered with the moment and suddenly sensed my presence in its whole state. One of his eyes cracked open with unbridled curiosity.

_"You. You spoke for them before."_

He says this as though I do not know, and he is telling me for the first time. I am still mute with the stillness, even though he has pierced it with his strange voice and liquid gold eyes, I nod in acknowledgment of his statement. That is the right thing to do, I believe, and still I stand in silence before him.

He sits upright and appraises me, his eyes turn hard as steel and fiery like hell all at once. And I am frightened. I take a step back as new words rip from his throat with barely restrained hatred, _"Why are you here?" _He pushes himself up from the floor shakily, even to sit like this, but it is still too dark to see all of him. Except his eyes, his omnipresent, omnipotent, molten eyes that cut through me and shake me to my very core. A threatening hiss is tacked onto each word, and I shiver with fear, "_Why are you here?" _he repeats, louder now, more demanding. I realize that I must answer him.

_"I will not hurt you," _the words sound strangled and wrong. I am terror-stricken by his hostility and my obvious mistake, _"don't fear."_

_"I'm not afraid of you fucking cowards," _he whispers harshly. I understand now that the word is almost like an emphasis, to enforce in the way of an insult the point he is making. I want to say that I am not a coward, but my voice would tremble with my cowardice. So I say nothing.

He made a motion in my direction and I unconsciously cower, flinching and taking an unsteady step toward the door. I see his strange eyes flash with some sort of a realization, and he suddenly barks with stunted laughter, and I am confused.

_"But __**you**__," _he continues, _"__**you**__ are afraid of __**me**__, aren't you?"_

Honestly, there is no use denying what is fact. If I tell him he is correct and I am afraid of him, hopefully, his reproachful advance will lesson. Perhaps it will illicit less hostility from the barbarian. So I tell him, _"I do fear you, Amestrian."_

He laughs again, and I bite hard on my bottom lip. To suppress what – a raunchy reply of prideful naiveté perhaps, or maybe a whimper of anxiety, weakness, and fear – I am not sure. He makes to stand, pushing himself up on his left arm. And in the next few seconds when he falls back to the ground and makes no move to catch himself, as his cheek hits hard against the stone floor hat pulls blood from his fragile pore; in those few seconds I realize that he only had one arm. His right sleeve hangs mysteriously limp, not containing the limb that would lever him onto his feet. Because surely he was still wounded, and rising would be a difficult feat.

_"Your arm." _It is a statement, falling from my mouth, and though I expect anger and flashing eyes of hatred. He does not turn to meet my gaze.

_"What about it?"_ he mumbles. I do not understand the question, however. So I do not answer him. He manages with some difficulty to rise up from the floor, and I am even more frightened now. My dreams come crashing back into my subconscious all at once, for the strange creature is on two feet now and even with one arm could surely overpower me. I look at his hand that is clasped hard to his side and I imagine it bludgeoning against my body, with bruising force as cries of hatred and fury fill the air around me. I shiver and take another shaky step back, soon realizing that there are no more steps back to take, nowhere else to go. Whatever it was that I was holding captive in my throat before now bubbles up from my lips and I find that it is, in fact, a whine from my petrified soul.

_"Why do you speak Amestrian? Are you there translator that they don't feel the need to have with them when they come and ask me questions? Are you coming with questions now? I won't answer them."_

The words spill from his mouth so fast that I stop listening and focus only on the first phrase, _"I learn Amestrian as child," _I reply, _"you speak fast," _I add sheepishly, hoping it is a good enough reply to whatever he had said previously.

_"What?"_ he asks, and before I have time to repeat myself so that he can better hear he answers me. As if he were merely speaking to himself for a moment, _"Oh. You can't understand."_ His tone of voice does not rise in volume at the end, so I assume that it is not a question. But if it is not a question, then I do not know what I should say in return.

I say nothing as he moves closer to me, each step impaired by whatever is bothering his side, as his hand never moves from the spot. I shake and quiver as he approaches, fear consuming me. His expression crinkles in contemplation as we meet eyes and he locks his gaze with my own. I want to look away, so _badly_, but I couldn't seem to pull away from whatever strange gold light he had trapped within his irises.

_"Pretty, at least."_ the Amestrian says, making a strange noise in the back of his throat afterward and tearing his eyes away to look me over. I felt very small under his gaze, and embarrassed suddenly at his words and his odd tone.

_"Thank you."_ I say, quite seriously, as it is the response that is given after a compliment. I'm sure of it. However, the man only makes the strange noise again and begins to laugh.

_"Your eyes are kind," _he says after a moment, his hand reaching up and a single finger touching the outside corner of my right eyes. I am too scared to move, I notice that he is deliberately annunciating each syllable carefully so that I can better understand. He holds no tone to these words that may contradict them like he did before, he is steady and serious now, as if it were a simple observation, _"your beliefs are not."_ he turned away and walked back to where he had been when I entered.

_"Get the fuck out of here."_

So I run.

* * *

_**A/N: **_It is actually rather hard writing about Ed in this girl's perpective. Because he is certainly _not _a monster. But alas, it must be done. If you read and you feel LUCKY click the button down below and receive 5 DOLLARS in thank you's! If that's possible :P Just kidding, you don't have to review if you don't want to. You do what you want. I'll like you anyway! I promise.


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